


I’m Unfazed Here Too

by a_static_world



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 4+1 Things, Hehehe, Hozier, M/M, Songfic, i love the barricade boys, not a fix it, they still dead, wasteland baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:31:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Four times Grantaire held back, and one time he did not.





	I’m Unfazed Here Too

_ All the things yet to come _

_ Are the things that have passed _

_ Like the holding of hands _

_ Like the breaking of glass  _

There certainly was quite a bit of broken glass scattered about l’ABC, Grantaire realized one night. The rally had been successful; everyone, including Apollo himself, was absolutely shitfaced. More glasses smashed to the ground.  _ Sounds like gunfire _ , Grantaire realized, before Musichetta nudged him out of his stupor (and his chair). He stumbled blindly towards the door, feeling hands clap him on the back as he tried to exit. He was going to be sick. 

One hand stopped him, however; long thin fingers sliding into his, blue eyes looking down upon him through a haze of alcohol. 

“Off so soon, R? You, the most celebratory one of all?”

Grantaire, realizing Enjolras still held his hand, quickly disentangled them. 

“I find that celebrations are much more fun when one is on their own,” he laughed bitterly, and bid the golden leader adieu. 

ㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇ

_ Be still, my indelible friend  _

_ You are unbreaking _

_ Though quaking _

From the table in the corner he could hear Enjolras proclaiming the scourge of the upper class, and he chuckled quietly to himself. He shook in his fervor, golden curls bouncing this way and that, and Grantaire longed to push them out of his face. 

He needed another drink. 

After one, no, three more drinks, he stepped outside. Enjolras had disappeared, having spoken himself into one of his moods, and the rabble had died down into a social mixer of sorts, Les Amis mingling with the others who had come to watch Apollo orate. Grantaire had had his fill of chatter, and thus excused himself. 

Once outside, he heaved a sigh to the heavens. 

_ If there’s a God above, let not the people stir. I don’t want to fight.  _

Somewhere to his left, he heard the soft sounds of crying. Figuring he wasn’t drunk enough to do any lasting damage, and quite possibly sober enough to help, Grantaire made his way towards the noises.

“R, you scared me, what could be the matter, that you are out here alone?” 

It was Enjolras. Apollo was weeping and Grantaire felt as though his tongue could no longer form a sentence. 

“I- I heard someone in distress, and seeing as I’ve had rather less to drink than usual, figured I could help.”

“Bah. You are of help to no one, Grantaire. Leave me be.” 

“Be still, Enjolras. The people will stir. Do not waste your energy on me.” 

And with that, Grantaire left, feeling close to tears himself. 

ㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇ

_ And you gaze _

_ unafraid  _

_ As they sob _

_ From the city ruins _

His face was marble. Grantaire had always longed to touch it, to see if it was as cold as could be thought, or if it was warm. Funny, how touch seemed to be the only way one could decide if Enjolras was a man or a particularly spirited sculpture. 

Whatever he was, Grantaire was infatuated. 

He looked on as Apollo stared at the carnage, the massacre begun by fear and carried out by man, gendarmes and Amis alike. Wails carried throughout the streets; women and children picked through the bodies and took anything salvageable. There were buildings on fire, their light casting shadows on Enjolras’ cheeks. 

He was not crying as he had been that night outside l’ABC. 

He seemed different. 

Maybe it was the need for a leader, the necessity of strength holding him up, but Enjolras was unafraid. Throughout the slaughter he had been cool and collected, ordering them about and keeping some semblance of order. 

And he had not looked at Grantaire once. 

ㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇ

_ Be known in its aching  _

_ Shown in the shaking  _

_ Lately, of my wasteland baby _

“The people have not stirred.” 

Grantaire ached for him. Enjolras’ shoulders slumped, his cravat was askew, and there was blood streaked in his golden hair. 

He looked a mess, and Grantaire loved him for it. Not in the way he loved Joly, or Jehan, or Combeferre, but the way Marius loved Cosette. Fiercely, wildly, madly loved him. 

But Grantaire was nothing but a drunkard to the eyes of Apollo. 

And so he was quiet, sitting alone on the barricade, nursing a bottle of red and worrying about, well, everyone. 

Gavroche, who was so young. Courfeyrac, on whom Enjolras relied so heavily. Marius, for his love now across the sea and his other dead and gone. 

For you see, R did more than drink. He thought, he painted, he loved the world more than any cynic before him. 

But Enjolras saw none of that. 

The paint spatters on his waistcoat were more likely wine, the thoughts in his head useless, for all that Enjolras could see. 

So Grantaire drank, watching Enjolras shake, and worried. 

ㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇㅇ

_ Wasteland, baby  _

_ I’m in love _

_ I’m in love with you _

Through the haze of gunsmoke and blood, Grantaire had lost track of Enjolras. 

Three shots rang out from l’ABC. 

_ Ah. There.  _

Grantaire ran as he had never before, shoving soldiers and rebels aside as he bolted towards the tavern. 

Up the stairs, over Joly and Combeferre and Courfeyrac, past Prouvaire. 

The fact that they were dead did not even register in his mind. 

All that mattered was Enjolras. 

And if he was dead, Grantaire would rip the monarchy down with his bare hands. 

He heard shouting and switched directions, throwing open a door and finding Enjolras, bloodied but unharmed, clutching a red flag and surrounded by gendarmes. 

_ Thank God.  _

He crossed the room, never breaking eye contact with his Apollo. The soldiers stood in dumb confusion: why would this man give up his life for another who was also sure to die? 

“Would- Would you permit it?” Grantaire asked tentatively, sliding his hand into Enjolras’. Enjolras squeezed back, and Grantaire thought there was almost something like love in his eyes before he was blown backwards into nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> hehehehe  
> i have been reading So Much enjoltaire and then i watched les mis and listened to hozier and now here we are.   
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and i just wanna thank you all for your support on In Case You Don’t Live Forever <3  
> also, i’m posting this at 10:40 pm so if there are any errors please let me know!


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